


A Second Look

by cowboykillers (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cowboykillers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is truly an exceptional human being. People have begun to not only notice, but capitalize on this, asking for his advice on everything from first date jitters to, well, you know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt on the BBC Sherlock kinkmeme:
> 
> Everyone John knows figures out that he's the go-to guy when it comes to advice about sex and relationships. He becomes the local love guru, and the Yarders, Mrs. Hudson, Sarah, Molly, Mike, Mycroft, everyone hits him up for advice on things like how to chat someone up, how to resolve lover's quarrels, how to keep the fun and romance in a relationship, how to please someone in bed. His advice is so good he even starts his own website, The Science of Seduction (or should that be The Art of Seduction, to contrast with Sherlock's website more? Or The Heart of Seduction? ANYWAY...).
> 
> Pretty soon random people are dropping by Baker Street, and Sherlock is subjected to listening to John work with clients, maybe even sometimes role-playing through scenarios with them, and clients adoringly telling John how brilliant he is. What's really annoying though is when they mistakenly think John and Sherlock are in a relationship and turn to Sherlock and say things like "You are really lucky to have a wonderful man like Dr. Watson. He's such a sweetheart. And he must be a dynamo in the sack." And Sherlock's all angry/sad-faced because, well, damn it he had to go and shut John down with that "married to my work" rubbish.
> 
> Happy S/J ending would be wonderful.
> 
> TL;DR John starts his own consulting business helping people with their sex and relationship problems. Sherlock is jealous he's not getting the benefit of John's expertise on the subject.

"You have four new e-mails. That's quite a lot for you, isn't it?"

John glanced up from where he was painstakingly buttering his toast, blinking in mild consternation as he realized that his flatmate had, once again, commandeered his laptop for personal uses. The first time, John had been more than a little annoyed, though looking back he supposed that was because his pride had been hurt that his password had been so easily deduced. (He'd since changed it, not that it seemed to matter. When it came to Sherlock, where there was a will there was almost certain to be about five different ways, and he always found the means to get where he wanted to be anyhow. Frustrating, but he'd chosen to find it endearing.) Now, though, he put up the token fight about it, but for the most part it didn't bother him. Unless he was using the thing to update his blog he didn't actually have much use for it, and he'd come to understand that rebelling in little ways kept Sherlock from being bored enough to blow up the kitchen on a lark.

Which, you know, he was kind of fond of the kitchen overall, filled as it was with Sherlock's experiments, so he'd rather keep it relatively intact if he could.

Crossing the room so that he stood behind his flatmate, he leaned over, balancing his toast on one hand and frowning. "Stop breaking into my laptop. It's a horrible invasion of privacy."

Sherlock didn't bother to glance back. "Stop making your passwords so easy. Honestly, it's almost an invitation."

John brought the toast to his mouth, taking a healthy bite and chewing; generally, he found that the length of time it took for him to chew and swallow a large bite was long enough to convince himself not to make a snarky response to one of Sherlock's flippant remarks. Generally it wasn't worth the fight, largely because the man was an unending well of witty retorts and John just ended up frustrated by the end of the talk, but also because there were plenty of other things to focus his annoyance on. Lately, the bulk of his ire was directed at the roofing, but a steady leak and an incessant _plip plip plip_ while a man was trying to sleep would be enough to drive anybody a little mad, he thought.

Drawing the back of his hand across his mouth, he settled for saying, "Budge over. Let me get to my exorbitant amount of e-mails, unless of course you've already read them. In which case, just give me the highlights so I can finish my breakfast."

The chair groaned as Sherlock leaned back in it, tipping his head just enough to give John an offended look before he spun it on its back legs and sprang out of it. "Of course not, John. That would be a terrible invasion of privacy. I was merely using your laptop for research, as mine is all the way in my bedroom."

Settling himself onto the chair, reflecting that it groaned a bit more under his bulk than Sherlock's, John got to the business of opening his inbox folder. The fact that four was an unusually large number of e-mails for him notwithstanding, he couldn't decide if he was more amused or annoyed that Sherlock had noticed and commented on it. Well, no matter; e-mails didn't read or answer themselves, and John was a bit curious.

The first was from Harry, and it made him frown while he read it. Not tipsy writing, not like the last time she'd e-mailed him, but her excuses were as long as the message was short. He was coming to believe that she would always justify a reason to pick up another drink, and it was fast becoming the single thing that would absolutely undo an entire childhood and adolescence of precarious like but undoubtable love. John often cursed himself for his inability to find the words to express to his sister exactly how much he missed the grudging camaraderie they had once shared, because often all that ended up coming out of his mouth was anger and bile and accusations, and then they ended up not speaking until the next time she slipped up and went looking for a bit of redemption. His cursor hovered over the reply button, and he considered it, considered for a _long moment_ , but decided that he couldn't respond.

Not this early in the morning.

The next was spam, which was par for the course, and then, interestingly, an e-mail from Lestrade. Before he could help himself, John asked aloud, "Lestrade? Really?" and hunched his shoulders, leaning forward and focusing intently on his laptop. Across the room, Sherlock roused himself from his indolent position, but John gave no more details.

After a few moments' silence, Sherlock interrupted his thoughts with a curt, " _Well_?"

"Hm?" Blinking, John sat back, raising a brow at Sherlock. "Sorry, did you ask me something?"

Sherlock had sat up fully, legs crossed on the sofa, palms snugly atop his knees. "Well, what did Lestrade have to say to you in e-mail? It can't be for a case, and I don't recall the two of you as being particularly close. Tell me at once."

He wasn't certain if it was Sherlock's commanding tone or the absurdity of him being so interested in the contents of the e-mail that amused John more. He chuckled, shaking his head as he began to draft up a response. "Oh, nothing you'd be interested in."

"I am obviously interested," Sherlock replied peevishly, tapping a rhythm against his pajama bottoms impatiently. "And you are being coy. Why?"

John ignored Sherlock in favor of his e-mail to Lestrade. It would do the man a little good to be kept in the dark about something for once, for however long it lasted.

He'd just hit send and gone along to his next e-mail when Sherlock flung himself off the couch, swirling about the room with an agitated air and muttering all the while. Well, John would let him have his little strop; the last e-mail required sufficiently less consideration to reply to, and when he was finished, he locked down his computer.

Rising, he tugged at the hem of his jumper, glancing about for his wallet. As he did, Sherlock paused, giving him a long once over.

"And where are _you_ going?" His expression eloquently spoke for him: _I know where you are going but I want to hear you say it so that I can demand to know why_.

Patiently, John tucked his wallet into his back pocket and replied, "Going to grab a bite with Lestrade. There's bread and eggs in the kitchen if you can rouse yourself to make a meal. I should be back in the afternoon, though you can always text if you need something."

Sherlock's eyes followed him while he moved about the flat, hand passing over the back of the sofa with a couple of quick pats while he gathered his thoughts. He wasn't certain exactly how long his lunch meeting with the detective inspector was going to take, but judging from the contents of the e-mail, they'd be hunkered down over coffee for a good couple of hours. Well, coffee and probably some kind of breakfast bread for John, as he'd only had that one piece of toast and he couldn't imagine tackling the task at hand on an empty stomach.

"I could just read your e-mails." His tone was petulant, brooding.

John laughed. "You could, but you won't. Invasion of privacy, and even _you_ know that's a bit to the end of not good. Anyhow," he added, surveying the flat with a raised brow before settling his gaze on Sherlock, "you know that if it was something where I needed your expertise, I'd ask. Just trust me on this."

Ah, but the size of the lemon he would have needed to suck to make that face any other day, John thought fondly.

"I'll be back later." He repeated, closing the door behind him with a satisfying click.

It was sort of nice, after all, to be the one being _consulted_ once in a while.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a bit strange to see Detective Inspector Lestrade outside of the context of a case. The strangest thing, perhaps, was that he dressed near identically; John would have had difficulty distinguishing personal wear from professional wear had he not known that Lestrade was certainly not on a case at just that moment. As far as he could tell, the only real difference, at least from a cursory glance, was the fact that he was wearing a pair of jeans instead of slacks. Or did he normally wear jeans? As he settled himself onto a chair, John puzzled over it, and ultimately decided that he couldn't remember and it wasn't overall that important anyhow.

To be fair, he didn't look much different from his usual attire either. Not that Lestrade ever saw him at the surgery, where he was dressed professionally, but for all intents and purposes, anyone who took a glance at them might have assumed that they were simply working out the particulars of a case over some tea and sandwiches. That was all to the better, as far as John was concerned, because if he was correct on his hunch about the meeting, it wouldn't do to have the news of it spread all over the place.

He offered Lestrade a small but friendly smile, tapping the fingertips of his right hand against the table. "Good to see you. I caught your e-mail just as I was making breakfast, so I hope you don't mind if I eat something."

Lestrade looked surprised, then apologetic, reaching up to rub a hand across the back of his neck. "Ah, there was no rush like that. I appreciate it, though. Coming to see me. I know it's an off day for you."

"Off day for you as well," John returned, perusing the paper menu before him. A bit early for lunch, but he didn't really fancy breakfast anymore now that he'd gotten out of the flat. "And I don't mind. I was just going to putter around the flat and get annoyed by Sherlock's experiments again."

Though John could tell that he was a bit nervous and uncomfortable, Lestrade smiled, and the effort was appreciated. "Well, yeah. In for a penny with that guy, in for a pound. You're doing all right, though?"

The question - followed by a searching gaze - well, it wasn't one that John was exactly used to, but he'd begun to wonder when he would hear it. He wouldn't deny that Sherlock was a lot to handle on a good day, but he really wasn't as bad as they all made him out to be. Or was it that John was just better able to tolerate all manner of bullshit after growing up with Harry and invading Afghanistan? Either way, though he'd initially thought that he would have a lot more difficult time adjusting to life with his new flatmate, they'd fallen into a rhythm near seamlessly and very quickly. It surprised him sometimes to realize how absolutely _content_ he was when he woke up, knowing that his day would be filled with the mundane and the ordinary, pushing aside Petri dishes to make his tea before he went to the surgery and flirted a bit with Sarah, with just a little dash of chaos on the side. His life had a balance now, as precarious as it seemed to other people, and he found that it quite worked for him.

Now, he wouldn't say that his balance was precisely normal. There was a fair bit of risk to his own personal well-being, life, and health that most people would find frankly frightening, but it worked for John. It wasn't constant danger and a pressure at the back of his mind wondering, each and every day, if he would be breathing his last - that had been Afghanistan - and though he'd thrived on the near-addictive, constant swell of adrenaline, he couldn't possibly continue living that way. Not for long, not if he wanted to grow to a ripe old age and eventually settle down in the countryside with a dog and a family of some sort. However, he couldn't simply leave that life behind him and dive fully back into being a civilian either, now could he?

He'd tried that, and he'd gone to therapy and he'd done his level best to be a quiet, unobtrusive, normal citizen. He'd woken up, he'd gone through the motions of his day, and he'd stared at an empty blog page to keep himself from staring at the illegal firearm in his bedside drawer. A life of peace and quiet, no matter how much he might have professed to wanting it, was the surest way to drive himself absolutely barking mad in the shortest possible time.

It seemed perverse and backward. It was true that he treasured the quiet moments, the times when he got back to the flat and he could sit stretched out on the sofa and watch crap telly with a cup of tea. An undisturbed night's sleep, a casual lunch with friends... of course he enjoyed those things. Of course he craved them, needed them. But without danger and violence peppering his life, disrupting the peace and showing him what it was really _worth_ , he wouldn't value them. He would just feel bored, listless. Useless.

Like another anonymous face moving through the drudgery of life. And oh, God, he shuddered to think of going back to that, of remembering what it was like to wake up without any excitement. Without any mysteries in his life.

So, taking a bit longer than he perhaps ought to have, John finally settled for, "More than all right."

Lestrade relaxed a bit, apparently satisfied by this. "Good. Glad to hear it, Dr. Watson."

"Please," he said, raising his hand and waving it as their sandwiches were set in front of him. "John is fine."

It took a bit to get to the heart of the matter, but John didn't really expect Lestrade to launch straight into it; it was always a bit difficult to talk about awkward things, and preserving a bit of normality for at least part of the outing would help them both. Honestly, John had no idea what sort of personal problem Lestrade could possibly have that he wanted John's advice on, but he was willing to do his level best to help him out. They were friends, of a fashion, and if it was something medical, John would know best where to direct him for more thorough care. If it wasn't medical, well...

He actually hadn't fully considered that it might not be medical. What else would someone want his specific advice for?

About halfway through their meals, Lestrade set aside his ham and cheese sandwich with some gravity. "I'm sure you're wondering why I've asked you here. Truth be told, I'm not sure how to broach the subject. It's a bit awkward."

Definitely some sort of medical problem, then. John cleared his throat, but didn't set aside his sandwich - he wanted a prop in case he needed to take a healthy bite to consider his words before speaking - and replied, "Best just spit it out as fast as you can. Like a plaster."

"All right, well. It's about Sally." John's eyes widened a fraction, but Lestrade barreled on before he could consider commenting. "She and Anderson have this - this thing. Everyone knows it's happening, everyone ignores it, and rightfully so, as it's no one's business but their own. Well, that's what I've always said, because personal life is personal, and as long as it's not interfering with the work then I've got no bloody business putting my nose into it and mucking things up."

His cheeks were getting a bit red, but his expression was so earnest that John couldn't find it in himself to be amused by that. Lestrade took another steadying breath, and John decided this would be a good time to take a bite of his sandwich. Preventive measure.

"The thing is, though, Sally's been..." He waved his hand around, searching for words. Not finding them, apparently. "Well Anderson's back on with his wife, as he generally is, and Sally's taking it hard, and I'm not certain... I'm no good at relationships, you know."

He looked down at his hand, and John discreetly looked away.

"But I hate to see her like this, and I'm not sure how to, well. How do you express to someone that they deserve better than a philandering arsehole without insulting them at the same time?"

This was so far from what John had been expecting that he took a great deal of time to chew his bite of sandwich. Personal indeed - _personally_ personal. He didn't know Donovan or Anderson very well, and didn't exactly have a high opinion of them given how they tended to treat Sherlock, but that didn't mean he would dismiss the situation out of hand. (After all, Sherlock gave as good as he got.) The very idea that he was being asked about something like this sort of dumbfounded him, if he was honest with himself. He hadn't exactly had the best track record since returning to London, no matter what he'd gotten up to in his younger years.

Ah, his younger years.

Lestrade was looking at him so expectantly, though, and so he swallowed, took his time in wiping his face with a napkin. When there was no longer any humanly way he could put off responding, he began awkwardly, "Well, there's... there's not really a way to express that, in so many words, inoffensively. Really."

His companion visibly deflated, shoulders dropping a good inch in disappointment.

"Not that you can't approach it from another angle." In his pocket, his phone vibrated, and out of habit John reached for it and slid it open without really thinking. "Sergeant Donovan is your friend, yes? You can always sit her down and let her know that you're worried about her, and available to talk if she needs anything."

He glanced down at his phone, and his polite, helpful expression suddenly turned entirely irritated.

 _READ THE E-MAILS. YOU KNEW I WOULD. PERSONAL PROBLEM? SH_

John typed back a response, hitting each key a little harder than he strictly had to out of annoyance. _Extremely poor taste. Not your business. Stay off my computer._

"All right, there?" Lestrade asked, shredding a piece of lettuce absently.

"Oh, just Sherlock being... Sherlock." He took a deep breath, set his mobile on the table. "Where was I? Right. It is, of course, ultimately her decision and business if she wants to continue to have an on-again-off-again affair? I assume that's what's going on?"

Lestrade nodded, frown deepening. "More off than on."

"Right." John got another text, couldn't help but glance at it. "So, don't go into this trying to tell her what to do. That's exactly the wrong approach for... well, just about anyone, but in my experience, women especially. Women and Sherlock," he amended, looking a little mystified.

Lestrade's lips twitched. "Women and children, then."

"Women and children," he agreed.

 _IF YOU'D TOLD ME WHERE YOU WERE GOING I WOULDN'T HAVE HAD TO LOOK. HOW LONG WILL THIS TAKE? SH_

The Inspector sighed, running a hand down the front of his face. "Sally... I'm not going to lie to you, I'm closer to Sally than I am Anderson. He's brilliant at what he does, and he's a decent man and I like him, but on a personal level, I'm more invested in Sally's well being than his. He's the one cheating on his wife," he added, expression darkening.

"She's the one helping him cheat," John replied gently, and Lestrade sighed again.

"I know it. It's difficult to not be a bit biased; Sally's been around for ages, and she's like a sister to me."

"Well-" His phone went off again.

 _NOT A CONSULTING DOCTOR. SH_

"Excuse me a moment," John said, frowning impressively. "Flatmate's acting like a six year-old."

Lestrade settled back in his chair and John sent Sherlock a very short, terse text. That done, he stuffed his phone in his pocket, lacing his fingers in front of him. "Let her know you're concerned, but you don't want to pry. Offer to go out for a pint or something, just to talk, and let her vent if she needs to. Don't push her if she doesn't want to," he added, shaking his head. "But really, the best advice I can give you is just be a friend. Absolutely do not try to set her up with anyone else."

At Lestrade's guilty look, John's expression became more stern. "Meddling like that is just going to backfire. You haven't already done it, have you?"

"Considered," Lestrade admitted. "Haven't done anything. Ah, I knew I was right to come to you, Dr.--John."

John laughed, but it quickly died off. "And why is that, exactly?"

"Well." Lestrade rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. "You have a very friendly internet voice. Seem to really care about the people you're writing about when you draft up those cases. Which are always a pleasure to read; I think we all keep up on your blog religiously now."

Ears burning, he replied, "Well, thank you."

"But what's even more compelling is how bloody nice you've made Sherlock." John couldn't help it; he laughed outright, shaking his head in disbelief. "No, I understand it's hard for you to believe, but he was a nightmare before you. Absolutely terrible. I managed him as best I could, but like I said - not the best at this kind of thing. I know how people think in a committing-crimes-and-trying-to-get-away-with-it kind of way, not in the... touchy-feely fashion."

Grimacing, John muttered, "Well that's very.."

"I don't mean to insult!" After a beat, Lestrade said meaningfully, " _See?_ Permanent foot in mouth, if you ask my mum."

"It's fine." His phone was really having a field day in his pocket. "And I am glad, really... if I can help, I'd like to."

Smiling, John leaned forward a bit, hands flat on the table. "Let me know how it goes?"

"Of course." Lestrade slapped his palm against the tabletop, smile broad. "I'll grab the bill for this one. Your help has been invaluable, John. Thanks again."

Amused despite himself, when Lestrade offered a hand, he took it and shook briskly. "Not at all. Any time, Inspector."

"Greg," he said warmly, laugh lines fanning out at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. "I do believe we've earned a first-name basis."

"Quite right," John agreed, happily.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time John had returned home from his brunch with Lestrade, Sherlock had well and truly worked himself into a strop. He'd sort of been expecting it, so rather than get his feelings hurt over the entire ordeal, John had just taken the opportunity to run some errands without needing to arrange a way to entertain his flatmate during his absence. Much to his annoyance, Sherlock took care of that himself - the kitchen counter was never going to be the same, he thought darkly - and the two of them ended up going to bed without speaking more than three words in conversation for the night. John knew from experience that it would all blow over soon enough, so he wasn't all that broken up about it; actually, he was more than a little irritated that Sherlock took his misplaced temper out on the kitchen, but he'd grown a bit used to that.

It was really just until Lestrade had another case for him, John was certain. Everything would right itself in time, and he just had to sit back and try not to brain his flatmate with the nearest blunt object in the meantime. (Easier said than done sometimes, if you asked John.)

Anyway, while Sherlock sulked about the flat it gave John plenty of time to work on his blog, and so he did. They'd taken a few smaller cases that he hadn't written up due to, well, always running off on another case, so that kept him rather busy. Then there were the back-and-forth e-mails discussing Donovan and Anderson's situation, which John wasn't exactly comfortable with but he wasn't really uncomfortable enough to stop, either, so... there were those. Honestly, he'd never considered that he would find himself in the position of being something of a relationship guru, but it was sort of nice.

He tapped his fingers against his lips, frowning a bit. Wasn't it a bit disingenuous as well, though? The most functional and stable relationship he'd had since enlisting wasn't exactly anything to brag about, not when it came to the sort of advice that Lestrade was seeking for Donovan and Anderson. For one thing, he and Sarah hadn't progressed past significant looks from across the surgery, try as he might to arrange a nice, quiet date for them. Awkwardly, something always seemed to come up at the last minute that involved Sherlock either crashing his date or abducting him from it, and he ought to have been thankful that Sarah was being as accommodating as she was, but that was a bit disheartening in and of itself.

He could recall a time when a woman slapped him across the face for dancing with her friend. He'd been a lot younger then, of course, and she'd had more than her fair share of vanity, but at least he'd known that his date at the time was _really_ invested in having his attention. Sarah, while interesting, intelligent, engaging, and rather attractive, just didn't seem all that bothered whether he was serious about their dating or not. Perhaps it was due to the fact that they were both a little older, and she'd already written him off as a flake - lord, he hoped not - or perhaps she just wasn't all that into him. It had happened before. As Sherlock would tell him, it was the most reasonable deduction of all the gathered facts.

Oh, God. He was trying to think like Sherlock. Back up, rewind, erase.

"Is the milk sour?" Sherlock idly turned a page in his book, not bothering to look up.

"What?" John blinked at him, wrinkled his nose. "No. ... why?" Images of the wretchedness he could have wrought upon John's milk flashed through his mind, many far more likely than he was comfortable with, and he eyed his tea warily.

"You're just grimacing, is all." Apparently, Sherlock had forgiven him for the terrible offense of spending one-on-one time with Lestrade. Honestly, if John hadn't known better, he would have thought he was jealous - but that was so far beyond Sherlock that it made John snort. "And now you're laughing. Are you _quite_ well?"

Unable to help himself, he nevertheless attempted to hide his smile, cupping his hand in front of his mouth and dragging it down over his chin. "I'm fine, thanks. Just had a funny thought. Anything on for today?"

Sherlock sighed, very noisily and gustily, and tossed his book carelessly to his left. John watched, unamused, as it hit the floor and the pages went all catawampus. "Nothing at all. It's dreadful. Hateful." He laced his fingers in front of his mouth, frowning and pressing his thumbs against his lips. "When London's criminal minds are functioning at a level where the police can handle them adequately, you know we need a revolution."

Rather more out of habit than design, John stooped to pick up the book and set it on the coffee table as he walked past. Only Sherlock would be disgruntled by the idea of the police force doing its job well and promptly, and it said something about John that he not only appreciated that aspect of his flatmate, but somewhat agreed with his opinion there. Not that he wanted more people to be hurt, God no; but he did enjoy the thrill of a case, and watching the absolute brilliance of Sherlock's deductive reasoning in action.

Well, all that, and the fact that when had something to sink his teeth into he was a lot less insufferable to live with.

Perching on the arm of his recliner, John brought his cup of tea up to his mouth, pausing just before taking a sip. "I'm sure something will turn up soon. If you're really, desperately bored, you could always volunteer to do the shopping next time."

Mouth screwing into a childish, hopelessly endearing frown, Sherlock returned, "Why in the world you think a mind-numbing task such as _shopping_ would somewhat relieve me of my boredom, I don't know. Really, John."

Having expected about as much, John just shrugged. "It was worth a try. You know, doing a bit of shopping can be pleasant. It lets the mind wander, and sometimes you run into interesting people."

Kicking his legs out before him, Sherlock inched down the chair, vising his hands around the ends of its arms. "We have _very_ different opinions on what constitutes an interesting person."

After a moment's thought, John decided to be pleased by the fact that, all things considered, that had likely been the most inoffensive thing that had occurred to Sherlock to say. Perhaps Lestrade had been correct; maybe he really _had_ improved Sherlock a bit.

"That aside, it isn't as though there's anything flattering about the implication that the mind wanders. You ought to train yours to focus more intently on one subject at a time; you're never going to _really_ improve otherwise."

And then he opened his mouth again.

They were spared the impending domestic by the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs. John was no where near Sherlock's level of deductive powers, but even he knew these were not the dainty, heel-clicked steps of Mrs. Hudson; more than likely a man, though he didn't have much time to puzzle it, as their guest stopped abruptly and knocked. Well, definitely not Mrs. Hudson, and not Mycroft either, because when had Sherlock's brother ever bothered to knock for anything?

"Come in," Sherlock called, a strange sort of light in his face. He obviously knew who it was - well, the arse could have let John in on it.

The door swung open, and Lestrade stood there a bit awkwardly, slapping a pair of gloves against an open palm. It was cold outside, and a bit drizzly besides, so John's first instinct was to rise and offer him a cup of tea. Unfortunately, just as he said his name - Greg - Sherlock also greeted him.

As Lestrade.

Well aware that a pair of keen eyes were boring their way into the back of his head, John decided to ignore them in favor of clearing his throat. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

Lestrade curled his fingers around the pair of gloves, raising his free hand and waving it. "Er, no, that's fine. I'm all hopped up on coffee as it stands. Thank you though, John."

" _John_?" Sherlock asked, seemingly unable to help himself.

Lestrade's eyes flicked to Sherlock's, and then back to John, who shrugged. "Yes, Sherlock? Did you want a cup of tea?"

Feigning ignorance was not something he was generally good at; neither was lying, or even covering up the truth, actually. It was a wonder Sherlock kept him around at all, given how absolutely hapless he was when it came to subterfuge of any kind.

Standing awkwardly between the other two men, he decided it must have been his rakish good looks that tipped the scale.

Quickly turning a laugh into a cough, John said, "I'll take your silence as a no, then. What can we help you with, Greg? Needing Sherlock?"

Sherlock's attitude of casual indifference was completely undermined by the way he sat straight up in his chair when Lestrade replied, awkwardly, "No, actually, John, if I could.. busy today?"

"What do you need _John_ for?" Then, apparently realizing how childish that sounded, Sherlock added, "Surely he resolved your personal problem for you days ago?"

Before Lestrade could jump to the wrong conclusion, John cut in. "He read the first e-mail. Nothing's been said aside from it, don't worry. Sherlock would find it all very boring, anyhow."

"Right," Lestrade agreed, shifting this time to tapping the gloves against his thigh. "Here, these are for you - nothing terribly exciting, but they should keep you busy of an afternoon."

Reaching into his jacket, Lestrade pulled out a manilla folder, offering it to Sherlock with a faintly disapproving look. John sighed as Sherlock sprang up, accepted it, and then quit the room without so much as a backwards glance.

Massaging his neck, John muttered, "Phase two of the power sulk."

"Sorry?" Lestrade asked, shoving his gloves deep into his jacket pocket.

"Nothing." Nimbly plucking his jacket from its peg, John shrugged it over his shoulders. "Fancy a walk and a talk?"

Tension eased out of his friend's shoulders as though a tiny string had been pulled. "Please."

They were halfway down the stairs when John's mobile chimed in his pocket. With a sense of foreboding, he pulled it out, stared at the message, and then smiled and slipped it away.

"Hope I'm not distracting you from anything important." Lestrade looked a bit guilty, a bit nervous. "I know I've been a right pain in the arse the past few days."

"No, it's fine." He pulled his shoulders up when a cold fist of air hit him in the face, and repeated, "It's all fine, honestly."


End file.
